


One Last Chance

by opal_earrings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hostage Situations, Mild Language, POV Outsider, POV Quentin Beck, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Post-Iron Man 1, Protective Tony Stark, Quentin Beck Being A Bastard, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28437966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_earrings/pseuds/opal_earrings
Summary: Quentin Beck glanced around Stark’s obnoxiously lavish living room, a nervous sweat gathering across his temples. In one hand, he held a fully loaded pistol in a white-knuckled grip. In the other was a tangled fistful of Stark’s son’s hair, keeping the boy pinned against his side.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 221





	One Last Chance

**Author's Note:**

> One last fic for 2020! I wish everyone reading a very happy new year, and happy reading :)
> 
> Warnings: Quentin Beck POV (he's a bastard), threat towards a child

Quentin Beck glanced around Stark’s obnoxiously lavish living room, a nervous sweat gathering across his temples. In one hand, he held a fully loaded pistol in a white-knuckled grip. In the other was a tangled fistful of Stark’s son’s hair, keeping the boy pinned against his side.

The little brat had kicked up quite the fuss when Quentin had stolen him away from the safety of his room, as cute as his weak attempts at struggling had been. All it had taken were a few hissed threats towards the boy’s nanny, or Stark himself, to drain the fight from him, and he’d allowed Quentin to drag him away.

The boy had instead taken to crying pathetically, the tense silence of the penthouse interrupted every few seconds by his loud sniffing.

It was absolutely maddening, but screaming at the brat to shut up would most likely just make him cry louder, so Quentin grit his teeth and tried to tune the sound out. His nerves were already frayed enough without a shrieking child to make matters worse.

His eyes flickered around the penthouse again, watching for any signs of an ambush, and his finger twitched where it sat on the gun’s trigger guard.

The gun was key to his plan, although he didn’t really intend to use it.

He just needed Stark to think he did.

Stark, who would be arriving at the penthouse at any minute, likely guns ablaze. Maybe even in that fucking superpowered suit of his, although Quentin had been hoping Stark would be caught off guard and wouldn’t have enough time to assemble the suit around himself.

It was the fucking nanny’s fault if he did. She’d put up too much of a fight, and the AI had likely alerted Stark to Quentin’s presence before Quentin had finally convinced the bitch to deactivate it.

Each minute felt like an hour as Quentin’s nerves stretched time out exponentially. He had no idea where Stark was, or how long it would take him to arrive at the penthouse. Stark made a point to be unpredictable, to never follow a regular routine—he had been fast approaching paranoid even before the whole superhero bullshit.

And since Quentin’s dismissal several weeks ago, it had become practically impossible for him to track Stark’s whereabouts. Which was how Quentin had arrived at this practically suicidal plan in the first place.

His heart thundered in his ears as he readjusted his grip on the boy’s hair. This whole plan was madness, but it was the only way to right the wrongs done to him by Stark. And sure, he didn’t feel great about using a child as leverage. But Stark had left him with no other choice.

Quentin was here to make things right.

After a few more minutes of Stark’s kid struggling to suppress his sobs, the elevator arrived. Quentin tightened his grip on the boy’s hair and raised the gun towards the entryway.

“Rachel?” came Stark’s voice.

He sounded… calm. Barely concerned, if a little confused. Definitely not like the AI had managed to warn him about the intruder alone in the penthouse with a gun rather close to his son’s head.

The sides of Quentin’s mouth tugged up.

“Rachel?” called Stark again. “JARVIS said something about a situation? Care to enlighten me, given JARVIS is acting wonderfully enigmatic about the whole—”

Stark appeared in the entryway; his voice trailed off and he froze. His eyes darted from Quentin’s face, to the child clutched at Quentin’s side, to the gun. Stark made a short, aborted motion, as though to draw a weapon, but he wasn’t wearing the Iron Man suit. He didn’t even have a gun on him. He was powerless.

Stark’s face darkened as he realized the gravity of the situation.

The boy was the first to speak. He jerked forwards with a sob. “Daddy!”

Quentin yanked on the boy’s hair, a wordless reminder of his earlier threats. Whimpering, the boy slapped his hands over his mouth and fell silent.

Stark edged into the room, his movements drawn-out and his hands raised cautiously. “I’m here, baby. It’s alright.” It took him a few seconds to recall Quentin’s name, as it always did. “Beck. What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing? Let Peter go and drop the gun. Now.”

Now he sounded panicked, caught off guard. Good.

“Good afternoon, Stark,” Quentin said, carefully. Slowly. He didn’t want to rush this. Firstly, because the situation was delicate and could go south at any moment. Mostly, however, because the fear in Stark’s eyes was too delicious not to savor.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not playing any games, Beck. You let go of Peter right now and then we can talk about whatever the hell it is you want.”

Quentin smirked as his heart thudded in his ears. “You’re not in control here, Stark. Here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to tell you what I want and once you give it to me, you can have the kid back.”

“You really think I’m gonna stand here and negotiate my kid’s safety with you? Don’t know if you’ve heard, but threatening people I love doesn’t exactly have the best success rate. So if you wanna walk out of this in one piece, you’re gonna let him go, _now_ , because this is between _us_.”

The boy whimpered again, and Stark’s voice immediately softened.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright, Petey. I’m here, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?” Stark edged closer, narrowing the gap between himself and Quentin. “Has he hurt you?”

Quentin cocked the gun. “No closer, Stark.”

Stark didn’t verbally acknowledge him, but he stayed put. “Peter? Can you tell me if you’re hurt?”

Still with his hands clamped over his mouth, the boy shook his head as best he could with Quentin’s fingers tangled in his hair. Quentin glanced down at the boy, at his Iron Man-themed T-shirt that had made Quentin sneer when he had first spotted it.

“Peter, is it?” he interrupted, enjoying the furious spark in Stark’s eyes. “How cute. Don’t worry, Stark. I haven’t hurt him—yet. But me and him have a little agreement, don’t we, Peter?” He gave the boy’s hair a quick tug. “He’s promised to stay nice and quiet so no-one has to get hurt and so we can have a talk, Stark.”

Stark’s face was fast turning red with fury. “What the fuck did you tell him, Beck? And—Rachel?” His head snapped side to side as he looked around, as though just remembering the nanny. “Where’s Rachel? JARVIS?”

The AI was silent. Quentin smirked.

“So arrogant, Stark. Your AI is not as difficult to hack into as you might believe.”

Which, unfortunately, Quentin had been unable to prove. He had so nearly succeeded at sabotaging the AI but had been forced to flee before the damned security guards patrolling the building like hounds could find him, thus losing his progress.

Instead, he’d resorted to jumping the nanny as she returned from an errand and forcing her to allow him access to the penthouse. Just as effective, but not nearly as slick.

“And the nanny is fine.”

He’d left her tied up in the closet in the kid’s room, but he hadn’t even had to hurt her before the boy had agreed to go with him.

Quentin yanked on the boy’s hair again, drawing a muffled sob from him. “As is the kid. So no distractions, Stark. You and I are going to talk.”

Stark glanced down at the boy, then back up at Quentin. His spine straightened and he cricked his neck.

“There’s no way I’m letting you get away with this, Beck, but fine. I’ll let you think you’ve got your moment. What do you want?”

Quentin readjusted his grip on the gun. “You _know_ what I want,” he snarled.

“Yeah, and you know you’re not getting it.” Stark’s voice was thin with impatience and desperation. “Just—just let Peter go. We can take this to a conference room. You’ll have my full attention, and we can discuss this properly, but—just—Peter has nothing to do with this. This is business. Don’t drag my family into it. Let him _go_.”

Quentin’s lip curled. Did Stark think he was an idiot? The moment he let the boy go he’d lose all the power he held in this situation. There would be no conference room, no civil discussion—just Stark’s security, then the police, and then Quentin’s life ending up even more ruined than it already was.

“I’ll let the kid go when you give me my fucking work back. You stole it from me. You stole everything from me!” His voice slowly raised to a shout. “Those designs are _mine_. _I_ invented that illusion tech. The money you made from it should be _mine_. It should be _my_ name on those patents. You destroyed _everything I’ve ever worked for_!”

At Quentin’s raised voice, the boy flinched and, despite Quentin’s threats to stay silent, began to sob uncontrollably. He pulled away from Quentin, but it took little effort for Quentin to tug him back. The boy sobbed even louder at the pain of his hair being yanked.

Stark edged closer. “It’s okay, Petey. Just stay still, alright? I know it’s scary, but nothing’s going to happen to you. I’m here.”

Quentin dragged the boy partially behind him. “Stay back, Stark,” he snapped over the boy’s sobs. “I want back every last fucking thing you stole from me. My money, my designs, my tech. Once you give me every last fucking thing, I’ll let your damn kid go.”

Stark fumed. “None of it belongs to you, Beck. You signed your contract. Nothing you created under Stark Industries’ name belonged to you, and you don’t get to decide how your inventions wind up getting used. Especially when you’re pushing for them to be weaponized. And you lost your right to royalties after you were fired. Which was in your contract, which you probably should have actually _read_ before you signed—”

Quentin’s grip tightened on the kid’s hair, and the kid shrieked behind his hands.

“For _fuck’s_ sake, leave Peter out of this!”

Stark’s eyes flashed with fear. He was desperate, and it was the most satisfying thing Quentin had ever seen.

“We can—we can discuss this. I’ll discuss everything with you, your—your tech and your money. And if you need a hostage, then you can keep your fucking gun aimed at my head all you want. Just give Peter to me. He’s scared, and you’re hurting him. He’s—he’s only eight, and you’re frightening him. He has nothing to do with this. Just let him go!”

“He has everything to do with this.”

Stark stilled.

“What the fuck are you—”

“It all comes back to him, doesn’t it, Stark? Your little bastard. You can pretend to be a family man all you like. Pretend you’ve changed. Act like you’ve got the moral high ground just because you don’t make weapons anymore. It’s all a farce. I know you.” Quentin’s face twisted up in a sneer. “You have no morals. You claim to care about the lives your weapons destroyed? You don’t care about _shit_. Just like you don’t care about destroying _my_ life, destroying everything _I’ve_ fought to build!”

Quentin had read the interviews, back when he’d first started working at Stark Industries and hadn’t yet wised up to what a despicable human being Stark was. Every article mentioned it: how having a child had mellowed Stark and turned his life around for the better.

The child had started Stark on the path that had led to the destruction of everything Quentin had worked towards for years.

Sure, the worst of it—dialing back the weapons division, turning the company around to focus on green technology, making that red headed bitch CEO—was a recent development since Stark had returned from Afghanistan. By Stark’s hero complex you would have thought he had been this way for years, and Stark always encouraged that narrative.

“ _I did it for Peter. I no longer felt comfortable passing on a legacy of such pain and destruction, and by scaling back the weapons division I hope to create a better world for my son, and for every American I made my weapons to protect_.”

Regardless of the timing, Stark had changed everything for the damn child pressed against Quentin’s side. It was the child that had sent Stark down the path towards… this. Towards ripping apart the image the company was known for, towards stripping away the creative drive of the R&D department in favor of making _smartphones._

Towards defunding all of Quentin’s projects and eventually firing him, just because he dared to be innovative.

All because of Stark’s little mistake: the baby. Stark’s little bastard baby he’d not even known existed until the mother—some whore from a science expo—had dumped him at Stark’s doorstep. And yet he’d chosen to devote _everything_ to the little brat.

Afghanistan had just been the final nail in the coffin.

“You stole everything my life has revolved around for years,” snarled Quentin. “So unless you want to suffer the same fate”—he yanked on the boy’s hair again— “you’re going to give it all back. Every. Last. Piece.”

Stark glanced down at the boy, but otherwise, he had gone very, very still.

“Beck,” he said slowly. His voice sent shivers down Quentin’s spine. “If you hurt Peter, then I _will_ kill you.”

Quentin didn’t doubt the sentiment. But Stark wasn’t the one with a gun.

He was.

Stark’s eyes flickered over Beck’s shoulder—then over to the boy, then back to Quentin’s face. After a long, tense moment, the fight drained from Stark’s limbs. He dropped his shoulders and he set his jaw in resignation.

“Okay,” he said, glancing back at the kid where he was partially hidden behind Quentin. “You win. Okay? Feel good? I’ll give it to you. The money, and the hologram tech. Might need to contact my CFO to make sure you get all you’re due, but we’re gonna get it to you, okay? You just let Peter go and we’ll get all that organized for you all nice and pronto—”

Quentin yanked the boy closer again. “The kid stays with me until I get what I want.”

Stark’s eyes flickered around the room again. “Well, that’s up to you, but I’m seeing a couple logistical issues with that. It’s gonna take us a while to get everything you want, and you know kids these days. Attention span of a goldfish. Or is that memory? Am I getting my idioms mixed up? Anyways. Very poor attention spans. And Pete’s going to be getting whiny pretty soon, which is really just going to make everything a lot more tense for the rest of us—”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed. Stark was stalling. The switch from panicked, protective father to Stark’s usual persona appeared to have to come out of nowhere. Each of Quentin’s limbs tensed, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

“What are you trying, Stark?” Quentin demanded—

And then something hard and cold pressed against the back of his head. A gun.

Quentin stood, frozen and panicked, as a hand ripped his gun out of his grip. It clattered to the floor somewhere behind him, leaving him powerless.

“Let go of Peter and put your hands up.”

That voice was one Quentin recognized—Hogan, Stark’s little guard dog. There must be a door behind Quentin, and somehow Hogan had managed to sneak up behind him. _Fuck_. Quentin should have prepared for this. A dog never strayed too far from its master, after all.

“Happy,” breathed Stark, running a hand through his hair. “Shit. _Shit_. Thank _fuck_.”

“Thought I’d come check on you after JARVIS went silent,” Hogan said, then the gun dug into the back of Quentin’s head even harder. “Let go of the kid. Now.”

Quentin twisted his fingers in the kid’s hair, cogs churning in his mind as he frantically searched for an escape. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t. He’d risked everything to get his tech back—he couldn’t afford to let this go wrong. He _couldn’t_.

Desperately, Quentin inched backward, trying to duck away from Hogan’s gun. The boy squealed as he was dragged with him, but Quentin didn’t make it very far before a gun cocking only inches away from his face stopped him.

“Let the kid go,” Hogan snapped. “Final warning.”

No, no, no—this will ruin him! This was supposed to be his one last chance to turn things around, to right the wrongs Stark had done to him—this couldn’t—there _had_ to be a way out, some way to get past Hogan, get past Stark—he’d take the fucking boy with him if he needed to—

The boy shifted slightly, and then, with a surprising amount of force, drove his elbow into Quentin’s crotch.

Sharp pain shot through Quentin’s abdomen and his knees crumpled as he groaned. The boy wrenched his hair out of Quentin’s grip and scrambled away. Weakly, Quentin grabbed at him, but before he could pull the boy back into his arms, Hogan wrestled Quentin to the floor, yanking his arms behind him. He twisted and thrashed to get free, but Hogan was like a mountain of muscle.

Quentin was trapped. _Fuck_.

Hogan leaned his weight on him, keeping him pinned, and spoke into a walkie-talkie. “Code black on penthouse levels.”

“Daddy!”

Stark grabbed his son and scooped him up into his arms, cradling the sobbing boy securely against his chest.

“Peter,” he breathed.

The boy sobbed pathetically. “ _Daddy_. I’m sorry!”

Stark shushed him, running a gentle hand through the boy’s hair and pulling him closer. “No, no. You did really well, Petey. You were so brave. My brave little man. I’m so proud of you.” He pressed a kiss into the boy’s hair. “You’re safe now, okay? I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

With a whimper, the boy buried his face in Stark’s neck.

On the floor, crushed beneath Hogan’s weight, Quentin seethed at the image of domestic affection before him. Stark had ruined his whole life. He didn’t deserve a happy ending, with his adoring little brat hanging off his neck, looking up to his _daddy_ and inevitably learning to emulate him as he grew up.

“You bastard, Stark,” Quentin howled. “You entitled fucking bastard. You’ve ruined everything for me! You can pretend to be a better man all you like, but people like me know. We break our backs working for you just so you can exploit us! You’re a fucking bastard and your little brat will grow up just the same—”

Hogan grabbed Quentin’s head and turned him away. Handcuffs clicked and cinched around Quentin’s wrists, leaving him helpless.

He’d lost. He was fucked.

“My guys are on their way up,” Hogan said to Stark. “Get Peter out of here. He doesn’t need to see this.”

Stark still sounded shellshocked. “Yeah. I’ll—shit, Rachel. I’ll go find Rachel.”

His footsteps headed away, towards the boy’s room. Fury smoldering like an untended fire in his chest, Quentin craned his head to watch the man that had destroyed his entire life walk away as if nothing had even happened.

The boy was still cuddled up against Stark’s chest, his face red and streaked with tears, but he looked up at his father like the man had hung the moon and stars. The little brat wasn’t aware of the injustices his _daddy_ was capable of. He didn’t know that Stark never spared a thought for those he used and cast aside to further his own selfish interests.

Soon, Hogan’s men would join them in the penthouse. They would grab Quentin, drag him away to God knows where. There was nothing more he could do.

Quentin was forced to watch as his one last chance to make things right slipped between his fingers like smoke.


End file.
